I remember dropping Arthur off for his first day of preschool and thinking "What in the world is he going to be doing without me for FOUR WHOLE HOURS??!" And now I'm staring down the day where I will drop him off for his first day of public school and I'm already thinking "What in the world is he going to be doing without me for SEVEN WHOLE HOURS??!" What if he gets lost? What if he gets hurt? What if he speaks so quietly no one can hear him and doesn't make any friends?
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Steve's mom flew in for a visit last week. The kids and I headed to the airport to pick her up and on the way home, I blanked on the directions. This always happens, and I always feel awkward with guests in the car and all, on my way to my own home, having trouble with directions. I blame the person who invented belt loops- how can you know which way to go when the direction is always changing?!?
I stalled a bit, driving slower, thinking to myself, "Inner loop.... towards Columbia.... outer loop....".
From the backseat came a helpful, "It's the second one, Mom." I acted nonchalant and took the second exit while chatting with Steve's mom, hoping he was right.
It was the second one.
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We took an end of summer trip to the mountains last weekend and rode carnival rides and fed goats and ate all the barbecue we could hold. We discovered that there were one or two rides that the kids were now tall enough to ride by themselves- no dad necessary. (Because obviously, I am not riding anything.) We stood near them as they stood in line, holding hands, and then burst through the gate to get the best seat. We watched as the attendant put the bar down over their little laps and I had to pull myself away from panic every time: they will not fly out, they will not fly out, they will not fly out.
They did not fly out.
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The three of us had a large pile of laundry to sort and fold and I had promised a little more play time before nap if we could get it done quickly. Arthur set to work, systematically folding napkins and towels. I assigned Helen to the socks and got to work on shorts and shirts. Helen moaned and complained, Helen stepped on Arthur's pile of perfectly folded napkins and knocked them over, Helen rolled around on the floor and accidentally kicked Arthur in the back three times. I reminded Helen about the socks, reminded her that we all wanted to play. She stuck out her tongue. She ran out of the room, careening into Arthur and knocking him over.
She's only five. She came back when we were done and she was sorry. She wanted to play. The thirty-seven year old in the group was out of patience and not impressed by sorry and basically told her she'd made her bed and would have to lie in it (but you know, in a slightly nicer, mom way). The six year old in the group said, "I forgive you, Helen. Can you put these napkins away for me? That would be helping. I bet we could play for just a minute if you help with this last little bit, right Mom?"
The most humbling, and also rewarding, part of being a parent has to be when your child outdoes you in grace and kindness.
And it hit me, like it has before, that he is more ready than I am. The nerves, the fears, the wanting to hang on just a bit longer- it's all me. I am the one on the side of the pool waving a float while he swims clear across to the deep end. Sure he still needs help reaching the cups, but he knows how to extend grace. He can't figure out how to turn his clothes right side out for the laundry, but he can navigate his way around town, or, presumably, an elementary school. He wants a hug and a band aid when he skins his elbow, but he is the bravest kid I know (aside from his sister, of course).
So here's to all the little super heroes who are headed back to school, and to all the parents who will mark the hours until their capes come flapping back through the door.